Kabanata Kabanata 32 · The Waking

When Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He

thought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity

scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he

rose to his seat, and found himself lying on his bournous in a bed of

dry heather, very soft and odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as if

the statues had been but shadows from the tomb, they had vanished at

his waking.

He advanced several paces towards the point whence the light came, and

to all the excitement of his dream succeeded the calmness of reality.

He found that he was in a grotto, went towards the opening, and through

a kind of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The air and water

were shining in the beams of the morning sun; on the shore the sailors

were sitting, chatting and laughing; and at ten yards from them the

boat was at anchor, undulating gracefully on the water.

There for some time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which played on his

brow, and listened to the dash of the waves on the beach, that left

against the rocks a lace of foam as white as silver. He was for some

time without reflection or thought for the divine charm which is in the

things of nature, specially after a fantastic dream; then gradually

this view of the outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand, reminded him

of the illusiveness of his vision, and once more awakened memory. He

recalled his arrival on the island, his presentation to a smuggler

chief, a subterranean palace full of splendor, an excellent supper, and

a spoonful of hashish.

It seemed, however, even in the very face of open day, that at least a

year had elapsed since all these things had passed, so deep was the

impression made in his mind by the dream, and so strong a hold had it

taken of his imagination. Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid

the sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the

shadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise,

his head was perfectly clear, and his body refreshed; he was free from

the slightest headache; on the contrary, he felt a certain degree of

lightness, a faculty for absorbing the pure air, and enjoying the

bright sunshine more vividly than ever.

He went gayly up to the sailors, who rose as soon as they perceived

him; and the patron, accosting him, said:

“The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and

desires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his

leave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important

business calls him to Malaga.”

“So, then, Gaetano,” said Franz, “this is, then, all reality; there

exists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right

royally, and has departed while I was asleep?”

“He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all

her sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all

probability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew.”

So saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction in which a small vessel was

making sail towards the southern point of Corsica. Franz adjusted his

telescope, and directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano was not mistaken.

At the stern the mysterious stranger was standing up looking towards

the shore, and holding a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as he

had been on the previous evening, and waved his pocket-handkerchief to

his guest in token of adieu. Franz returned the salute by shaking his

handkerchief as an exchange of signals. After a second, a slight cloud

of smoke was seen at the stern of the vessel, which rose gracefully as

it expanded in the air, and then Franz heard a slight report.

“There, do you hear?” observed Gaetano; “he is bidding you adieu.”

The young man took his carbine and fired it in the air, but without any

idea that the noise could be heard at the distance which separated the

yacht from the shore.

“What are your excellency’s orders?” inquired Gaetano.

“In the first place, light me a torch.”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” replied the patron, “to find the entrance to

the enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it

would amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too

have had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has

come over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch,”

he added, “and give it to his excellency.”

Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, and entered the subterranean

grotto, followed by Gaetano. He recognized the place where he had

awaked by the bed of heather that was there; but it was in vain that he

carried his torch all round the exterior surface of the grotto. He saw

nothing, unless that, by traces of smoke, others had before him

attempted the same thing, and, like him, in vain. Yet he did not leave

a foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without

strict scrutiny; he did not see a fissure without introducing the blade

of his hunting sword into it, or a projecting point on which he did not

lean and press in the hopes it would give way. All was vain; and he

lost two hours in his attempts, which were at last utterly useless. At

the end of this time he gave up his search, and Gaetano smiled.

When Franz appeared again on the shore, the yacht only seemed like a

small white speck on the horizon. He looked again through his glass,

but even then he could not distinguish anything.

Gaetano reminded him that he had come for the purpose of shooting

goats, which he had utterly forgotten. He took his fowling-piece, and

began to hunt over the island with the air of a man who is fulfilling a

duty, rather than enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter of

an hour he had killed a goat and two kids. These animals, though wild

and agile as chamois, were too much like domestic goats, and Franz

could not consider them as game. Moreover, other ideas, much more

enthralling, occupied his mind. Since, the evening before, he had

really been the hero of one of the tales of the _Thousand and One

Nights_, and he was irresistibly attracted towards the grotto.

Then, in spite of the failure of his first search, he began a second,

after having told Gaetano to roast one of the two kids. The second

visit was a long one, and when he returned the kid was roasted and the

repast ready. Franz was sitting on the spot where he was on the

previous evening when his mysterious host had invited him to supper;

and he saw the little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the wave,

continuing her flight towards Corsica.

“Why,” he remarked to Gaetano, “you told me that Signor Sinbad was

going to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of

Porto-Vecchio.”

“Don’t you remember,” said the patron, “I told you that among the crew

there were two Corsican brigands?”

“True; and he is going to land them,” added Franz.

“Precisely so,” replied Gaetano. “Ah, he is one who fears neither God

nor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his

course to do a poor devil a service.”

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“But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of

the country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,” said

Franz.

“And what cares he for that,” replied Gaetano with a laugh, “or any

authorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the

first place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any

frigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on

the coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere?”

It was perfectly clear that the Signor Sinbad, Franz’s host, had the

honor of being on excellent terms with the smugglers and bandits along

the whole coast of the Mediterranean, and so enjoyed exceptional

privileges. As to Franz, he had no longer any inducement to remain at

Monte Cristo. He had lost all hope of detecting the secret of the

grotto; he consequently despatched his breakfast, and, his boat being

ready, he hastened on board, and they were soon under way. At the

moment the boat began her course they lost sight of the yacht, as it

disappeared in the gulf of Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the last

trace of the preceding night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish,

statues,—all became a dream for Franz.

The boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the

sun rose, they had lost sight of Monte Cristo.

When Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment

at least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his

affairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he

should rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.

He set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane

by the mail-coach. An apartment, as we have said, had been retained

beforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini’s hotel. But

this was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with

people, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur

which precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great

events in every year,—the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the

Feast of St. Peter.

All the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy,

between life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station

between this world and the next—a sublime spot, a resting-place full of

poetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six

times, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking.

At last he made his way through the mob, which was continually

increasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel.

On his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to

hired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that

there was no room for him at the Hôtel de Londres. Then he sent his

card to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan

succeeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for

having made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the

candlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller

and was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared.

The apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms

looked on to the street—a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as

an inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very

rich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the

host was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller

belonged.

“Very good, signor Pastrini,” said Franz; “but we must have some supper

instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days.”

“As to supper,” replied the landlord, “you shall be served immediately;

but as for the carriage——”

“What as to the carriage?” exclaimed Albert. “Come, come, Signor

Pastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage.”

“Sir,” replied the host, “we will do all in our power to procure you

one—this is all I can say.”

“And when shall we know?” inquired Franz.

“Tomorrow morning,” answered the innkeeper.

“Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that’s all, I see plainly

enough. At Drake’s or Aaron’s one pays twenty-five lire for common

days, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast

days; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and

there’s an end of it.”

“I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a

carriage.”

“Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the

journey, but that’s no matter.”

“There are no horses.”

Albert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not

understand.

“Do you understand that, my dear Franz—no horses?” he said, “but can’t

we have post-horses?”

“They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but

those absolutely requisite for posting.”

“What are we to say to this?” asked Franz.

“I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am

accustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is

supper ready, Signor Pastrini?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“Well, then, let us sup.”

“But the carriage and horses?” said Franz.

“Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a

question of how much shall be charged for them.” Morcerf then, with

that delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to

a full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept

soundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a

coach with six horses.